XI
THE CHARM OF OLD MONTEREY

"I say God's kingdom is at hand

Right here, if we but lift our eyes;

I say there is no line nor land

Between this land and Paradise."

So sang Joaquin Miller, the Good Gray Poet of the Sierras. What particular place in California he had in mind I do not know, but if I were making application of his verse to any one spot, it would be Monterey and the immediate vicinity. Perhaps I am unduly prepossessed in favor of Del Monte, for here I came on my wedding tour many years ago, and I often wondered whether, if I should ever come again, it would seem the same fairyland and haven of rest that it did on that memorable occasion. I say "haven of rest," for such indeed it seemed in the fullest sense after an all-day trip on a little coast steamer from San Francisco. It was my first voyage and the sea was as rough as I have ever seen it; great waves tossed the little tub of a boat until one could stand on deck only with difficulty. Perhaps I am not competent to give an opinion about standing on deck when during most of the trip I perforce occupied a berth in the ill-smelling little cabin. When the Captain called us to dinner we made a bold effort to respond and I still recall the long, boxlike trench around the table to keep the dishes from sliding about. One whiff of the menu of the "Los Angeles" satisfied us and we retired precipitately to the cabin. The boat was twelve mortal hours in making the trip. When we landed the earth itself seemed unstable and it was not until the following morning that "Richard was himself again."

I do not know that such a digression as this is in place in a motor-travel book. However that may be, I shall never forget the first impressions of Del Monte and its delightful surroundings on the following morning; nor can anything eradicate the roseate memory of the scenes of the seventeen-mile drive, although we made it in so plebeian a vehicle as a horse-drawn buggy.

But Del Monte was not less satisfying or its surroundings less beautiful on the lovely morning—an almost unnecessary qualification, for lovely summer mornings are the rule at Del Monte—following our second arrival at this famous inn. Its praises have been so widely sounded by so much better authorities than myself that any lengthy description here would surely be superfluous. I shall content myself with introducing a page from "America, the Land of Contrasts," by that experienced traveler, Dr. Muirhead, author of Baedeker's guides for Great Britain and the United States, who unqualifiedly pronounces Del Monte the "best hotel on the American continent" and while such a statement must be largely a matter of personal opinion, all, we think, will concede that the famous hotel is most delightfully situated. Dr. Muirhead writes:

"The Hotel Del Monte lies amid blue-grass lawns and exquisite grounds, in some ways recalling the parks of England's gentry, though including among its noble trees such un-English specimens as the sprawling and moss-draped live-oaks and the curious Monterey pines and cypresses. Its gardens offer a continual feast of color, with their solid acres of roses, violets, calla lilies, heliotrope, narcissus, tulips, and crocuses; and one part of them, known as 'Arizona,' contains a wonderful collection of cacti. The hotel is very large, enclosing a spacious garden-court, and makes a pleasant enough impression, with its turrets, balconies, and verandas, its many sharp gables, dormers, and window-hoods. The economy of the interior reminded me more strongly of the amenities and decencies of the house of a refined, well-to-do, and yet not extravagantly wealthy family than of the usual hotel atmosphere. There were none of the blue satin hangings, ormolu vases, and other entirely superfluous luxuries for which we have to pay in the bills of certain hotels at Paris and elsewhere; but on the other hand nothing was lacking that a fastidious but reasonable taste could demand. The rooms and corridors are spacious and airy; everything was as clean and fresh as white paint and floor polish could make them; the beds were comfortable and fragrant; the linen was spotless; there was lots of 'hanging room;' each pair of bedrooms shared a bathroom; the cuisine was good and sufficiently varied; the waiters were attentive; flowers were abundant without and within. The price of all this real luxury was $3.00 to $3.50 a day. Possibly the absolute perfection of the bright and soft California spring when I visited Monterey, and the exquisite beauty of its environment, may have lulled my critical faculties into a state of unusual somnolence; but when I quitted the Del Monte Hotel I felt that I was leaving one of the most charming homes I had ever had the good fortune to live in."

All of which is quite as true to-day as it was more than twenty years ago, when it was first written, excepting that the good doctor would not linger very long at Del Monte on $3.50 per day. And it should be remembered that since the time of Dr. Muirhead's visit many new hotels, which rival Del Monte in location and excellence, have been built in California. The variety and extent of the grounds, the golf links and other amusements, are attractions that might well detain one for some time, even if the surrounding country were not the most beautiful and historic in California. The miles of shady, flower-bordered walks, the lake with its friendly swans, the tennis and croquet grounds, the world-famous golf course, the curious evergreen maze—a duplicate of the one at Hampton Court Palace—the bath-house and the fine beach a few hundred yards to the rear of the hotel, and many other means of diversion always open to the guests, combine to make Del Monte a place where one may spend days without leaving the grounds of the hotel.

Before one begins the exploration of the peninsula he should gain some idea of the historic wealth of Monterey. No other town on the Pacific Coast can vie with this quiet little seaport in this particular. Discovered by Spaniards under Viscaino in 1602—before the Pilgrim Fathers landed—it was named in honor of the Count of Monterey, ninth viceroy of Mexico. It was the record of this explorer and his testimony to the beauty of the spot that led good Father Serra to select Monterey as the site of his second mission, as related elsewhere in this book. This was in 1770, one year after the founding of San Diego. It will be recalled that the first expedition sent out from San Diego returned without reaching Monterey, but it did discover the great harbor of San Francisco. The second expedition, accompanied by Serra himself, resulted successfully and the good Franciscan had the joy of dedicating San Carlos Borromeo in this beautiful spot. The presidio, or military establishment of the soldiers who came with Serra, was located on the present site of the town and later Monterey was made the provincial capital, a distinction which it retained after the Mexican revolt in 1822 until the American occupation in 1846. It was the center of brilliant social life and gallant adventure during the old Spanish days—some hint of which may be gleaned from our description of the second act of the mission play, which is represented to have taken place at San Carlos. There were battles with pirates who more than once attempted to sack the town and who caused the wreck of many ships by erecting false lights on the shore. But all this came to an end and a new era no less picturesque was opened when the two small vessels, the Cyane and the United States, entered the harbor in July 1846. A landing party under the commander, Commodore Sloat, came ashore and hoisted the stars and stripes over the old custom-house, which is standing to-day, still surmounted by the staff which bore the historic flag. We saw this when we began our round of the town—a long, low building guarded by a lone cypress and consisting of two square pavilions with balconies, with a lower edifice between in which dances and social events were held.

It is now used as a lodge room for the Monterey Chapter of the Native Sons of the Golden West and is usually closed to visitors. We had the good fortune to find it open and in charge of a very interesting Native Son, an old-time resident of the town, whose personal experience dated back to the time of the American occupation. He showed us the various relics collected by the organization, among them the base of the old flag-pole, the trunk of a tree blazed by Kit Carson, and two chairs made from the oak under which Viscaino and Serra are said to have landed. He also told us many incidents in the early history of Monterey and I shall never forget his comment on the result of the work of the missions.

"Ah, they were grand old fellows, those Spanish priests; they ridded California of the Indians and a good job it was—if you don't think so, look at Mexico, where they still exist. Civilization and the white man's diseases were the Spaniard's gifts to the Indian and they finally wiped him out of existence."

Certainly an unique if not very cheerful or appreciative view of the work of the Franciscan fathers.

There is a broad plaza before the custom-house and from this the principal streets of the town begin and each seems distinctive of a particular phase of Monterey. Modern improvements have followed Alvarado, while Main is bordered with adobes—some old and tumble-down but nevertheless very picturesque with their tile roofs, white walls, and little gardens bright with roses and geraniums. On this street is the house occupied by Thomas Larkin, the last American consul, who was much involved in the intrigue preceding the American conquest. To the rear of this house is a little rose-embowered, one-room cottage which was occupied by two young lieutenants, Sherman and Halleck, whose names were afterwards to become so famous in the Civil War.

And this is not the only romantic memory of Sherman still existing in Monterey. Over an arched gateway a sign, "The Sherman Rose," attracted our attention. We made bold to enter and knocked at the door of the solid old stone house inside the enclosure. A little old woman, good-looking in spite of her years, answered our call, but soon made it clear that she spoke no English. She pointed to the ancient rose-vine, several inches in diameter, which scattered its huge fragrant yellow blooms in reckless profusion over the trellis above our heads and we understood that this was the rose which legend declares Sherman and a lovely young senorita of Old Monterey planted as a pledge of mutual affection. But we did not know at the time that the old lady who so kindly showed us about the house and gardens and gave us little bouquets of geraniums and rosebuds is reputed in Monterey to be the identical senorita of the story. I think there must be some mythical elements in this supposition, for the lady hardly looked the years made necessary by the fact that Sherman was in Monterey nearly seventy years ago. The legend is that Sherman, when stationed in Monterey, was enamored of Senorita Bonifacio, the most beautiful young woman of the town. In the midst of his romance the young lieutenant was ordered to the east and when he called on his inamorata to acquaint her with the mournful news he wore a Cloth-of-Gold rose in his coat. His sweetheart took the rose, saying,

"Together we will plant this rose and if it lives and flourishes I shall know that your love is true."

He replied, "When it blooms I will come back and claim you."

But whether the story is true or not, it had not the usual ending, for the young officer never returned to redeem his pledge.

Not far from the Larkin house is the long, low, colonnaded home of Alvarado, the last Spanish governor, and near it stands Colton Hall, famous as the meeting-place of the constitutional convention which assembled within its walls on the day that California was admitted to the Union. Its handsome Grecian facade, with a portico supported by two tall white columns, reminds one of some of the stately Colonial homes of the Southern States. It now serves the very useful though somewhat plebeian purpose of the tax collector's office. Some day we hope it may be converted into a museum to house the historic relics of Monterey. It took its name from Walter Colton, the chaplain of the convention and first American alcade or mayor of the town. A diary which he kept during the three years of his office records many stirring incidents of Old California.

Another structure nearing the century mark, built in 1832, is the Washington Hotel, though that was not its original name, and near it is the ramshackle old adobe known by common consent as the Robert Louis Stevenson house. For the well-beloved author was for four months of 1879 a resident of the town at a time when his health and fortunes seemed at their lowest ebb. Even then he was the leading spirit of a little coterie of Bohemians—artists and litterateurs—among them Charles Warner Stoddard, Jules Tavernier, and William Keith, who often met for dinner in the restaurant kept by Jules Simonneau. To the last named, Stevenson gives credit for saving his life by careful nursing during a severe illness which he suffered shortly after coming to Monterey. Simonneau was a rough, full-bearded old frontiersman, but he conceived an attachment for Stevenson which lasted to the day of his death, and never, even under stress of direst need, would he part with the letters or autographed books which the author had sent him. Neither would he permit the publication of any portion of the correspondence—"letters from one gentleman to another," as it was his whim to refer to them. After his death, which occurred a few years ago, his daughter sold the collection to a San Francisco gentleman and it is to be hoped that the letters will ultimately find their way into print, revealing as they do a very intimate and lovable side of Stevenson's character.

The house was in a sad state of disrepair, the first floor being occupied by a sign-painter's shop at the time of our visit. An erect old fellow, who looked as if his chief failing might be a too free indulgence in one of California's chief products, came out to greet us as we paused before the house, and pointed out the room the great writer occupied during his stay in Monterey. It must have been hard indeed for this prince of optimists to "travel hopefully" under the conditions that surrounded him those few months of his life—exiled, penniless, and ill, domiciled in such rude and comfortless quarters, he must have been as near despair as at any time in his career, yet out of it all came some of his best work.

Our informant refused a fee in a lordly manner.

"I'm a retired officer of the United States Navy, a classmate of Bob Evans, and I was on the Minnesota during the fight with the Merrimac," he declared, and left us with a formal military salute.

Our picture, the work of a Monterey artist, shows the harsh outlines and bare surroundings of the old house accentuated by a flood of California sunshine.

There are many other interesting and picturesque old buildings about the town, among them several that claim the distinction of being the first—or last—of their kind in the state. A tumble-down frame structure is declared to have been the first wooden house in California, built in 1849 of lumber brought from Australia. Talk of "carrying coals to Newcastle," what is that to bringing lumber ten thousand miles to the home of the redwood! The first brick house and the first adobe are also to be seen in the town and the first theatre—where Jenny Lind sang in 1861—still stands.

As one views the historic buildings of Monterey, the painful thought is forced upon him that nearly all are in a deplorable state of dilapidation and that many will have disappeared in a few years unless steps are taken to restore and preserve them. Neither Monterey nor the State of California can afford to lose these memorials of the romantic days of old and it is to be hoped that an enlightened movement to protect them, as well as the missions, may soon be inaugurated by the state.

The one ancient building in Monterey which bears its years very lightly is the fine old church of San Carlos. This is often confused with the mission, but the fact is that it was the parish, or presidio church, as it was called in Spanish days, and was really built as a place of worship for the soldiers, who were at considerable distance from the mission proper at Carmel. There were often bickerings between the Indians and soldiers and the monks judged it best to give the latter a separate chapel. The church was built some time later than the mission—the exact date is not clear—and was enlarged and restored about sixty years ago. The material is light brown stone quarried in the vicinity and the roof is of modern tiles. The pavement in front of the church is made of curious octagonal blocks which we took for artificial stone, but which are really the vertebrae of a whale—reminding us that at one time whale-fishing expeditions often went out from Monterey.

The interior is that of a modern Catholic church, but there are numerous relics in the vestry which the priest in charge exhibits to visitors for a small fee; candlesticks and vessels in silver and brass, and richly broidered vestments and altar cloths. Most interesting are many relics of Father Serra, including several books inscribed by his own hand. These were brought from Carmel Mission when it was finally abandoned.

Another object that aroused our curiosity was the trunk of a huge oak set in cement and carefully preserved. This, the priest told us, was the Serra Oak, under which Viscaino landed in 1602 and which sheltered Serra himself in 1770, when he took possession of Monterey for the king of Spain. It grew near the present entrance of the presidio, but withered and died shortly after Father Serra passed away. The trunk was thrown into the sea to dispose of it, but two pious Mexicans dragged it ashore and it was finally placed where we saw it, in the garden of San Carlos Church.

The church stands on the hill which overlooks the town and of old must have been the first object reared by human hands to greet the incoming mariners. At one time it commanded a fine view of the bay, but this is now obstructed by the buildings of St. Joseph School.

Monterey was one of the points visited by Dana in 1835, towards the end of the Spanish domination, and the picture he gives is a charming one:

"The pretty lawn on which the village stands, as green as sun and rain could make it; the low adobe houses with red tiles; the pine wood on the south; the small soiled tri-color flag flying and the discordant din of drums and trumpets for the noon parade," were the salient features of the town that he sets down. Of these, the low adobe houses with the red tiles and the pine wood still remain, but the green lawn and the tri-color flag of Spain are to be seen no more.

After the town the mission will be the next goal of the tourist—if, indeed, it has not been the first object to engage his attention. It is on the other side of the peninsula, some five miles from the Del Monte and a short distance beyond the lovely little village of Carmel-by-the-Sea. The road for half the distance climbs a steady grade and then drops down through the village to the shore of the bay. Here, within a stone's throw of the rippling water, sheltered by the hills on the land side, stands the restored mission church which probably outranks all its contemporaries in historic significance. For it was in a sense the home of the pious old monk whose zeal and energy were responsible for the long chain of Christian missions; and in its solemn confines he was laid to rest. We saw in it a striking resemblance to the presidio church which we had just left, a square, simple bell-tower with a domed roof to the left of the fachada, which is of the prevailing Spanish type. This is broken by a star window of simple yet pleasing design—the only attempt at artistic effect about the severely plain old structure. As it stands, it is the result of a restoration, thirty years ago, from an almost complete ruin—just how complete one may judge from a drawing made by Henry Sandham for Mrs. Jackson's "Glimpses of California," which appeared in 1882. Only two slender arches of the roof were standing then and the space between the walls was filled with unsightly piles of debris. Underneath this was the grave of the reverend founder, Father Serra, the exact location of which was lost. No doubt the earnest appeal of the author of "Ramona" had much to do with the rescue of Carmel Mission Church from the fate which threatened it. She wrote:

"It is a disgrace to both the Catholic Church and the State of California that the grand old ruin, with its sacred sepulchres, should be left to crumble away. If nothing is done to protect and save it, one short hundred years more will see it a shapeless, wind-swept mound of sand. It is not in our power to confer honor or bring dishonor on the illustrious dead. We ourselves, alone, are dishonored when we fail in reverence to them. The grave of Junipero Serra may be buried centuries deep, and its very place forgotten; yet his name will not perish, nor his fame suffer. But for the men of the country whose civilization he founded and of the church whose faith he so glorified, to permit his burial-place to sink into oblivion is a shame indeed."

Such an appeal could hardly pass unheeded; the old church rose from its ruins and the grave of Serra was discovered near the altar. Above it on the wall is a marble tablet with a Latin inscription which may be translated as follows:

Surely it is a pleasant resting-place for the weary old priest and no doubt the spot above all others which he himself would have chosen. Could he look back on his field of work to-day perhaps his sorrow for the wreck and ruin of his cherished dream might be mitigated by the tributes of an alien people to his sincerity of purpose and beauty of character.

Beautiful as was the situation of nearly all the missions, we were inclined to give to Carmel preeminence in this regard. Around it glows the gold of the California poppy; a bright, peaceful river glides quietly past; rugged, pine-crested hills rise on either side and a short distance down the valley is the blue gleam of Carmel Bay, edged by a wide crescent of yellow sand. Beyond this is the rugged, cypress-crowned headland, Point Lobos—why called the Point of Wolves I do not know unless it be that the insatiable waves that gnaw ceaselessly at the granite rocks suggested to some poetic soul the idea of ravenous beasts.

The mission is the sole object in this magnificent setting. The tiny cot of the keeper and a quiet farm-house are almost the only indications of human life in the pleasant vale. The monastery has vanished and only a bank of adobe shows where the cloisters stood. The roof of the church has been renewed, but the walls are still covered with the ancient plaster, which has weather-stained to mottled pink and old ivory. It is now guarded with loving care and with the reviving interest in things ancient and romantic in California is sure to be preserved to tell to future ages the story of the brave and true Little Brother of St. Francis, who sleeps his long sleep in its hallowed precincts.

Carmel's story may be told in few words. Founded by Serra himself in 1770, it did not reach its zenith of prosperity until after his death, which occurred in 1784. The story of his last illness and demise—a pathetic yet inspiring one—is beautifully told in Mrs. Jackson's "California Sketches." It was on August 28th that he finally passed away, so quietly and peacefully that all thought him sleeping. The distress and sorrow of his Indian charges on learning of his death is one of the strongest tributes to his lovable character. A year after his death his successor as president was chosen—Padre Lasuen, who himself founded several missions, as we have seen.

The hospitality of the fathers is shown by the recorded incident of the English navigator, Vancouver, who reached Monterey in 1787. Lasuen gave a grand dinner and even a display of fireworks in honor of his guest, although he belonged to a nation very unfriendly to Spain. The good priest, however, was rebuked by the governor, who was away at the time, for allowing the Englishman to discover the weakness of the Spanish defenses in California.

Carmel Mission declined earlier and more rapidly than many of its contemporaries, for in 1833, the year prior to secularization, there were only one hundred and fifty Indians remaining and in a decade these had dwindled to less than fifty. In 1845 the property was completely abandoned and sold at auction for a mere trifle. No one cared for the building and seven years later the tile roof fell in. Of the restoration we have already told.

One will hardly return from the mission without a glance about Carmel village. Indeed, if he be fond of quiet retirement, and his time permits, he may even be tempted to a sojourn of a day or more. It is a delightfully rural place, its cottages scattered through fragrant pines which cover most of its site, and running down to a clean, white beach along the bay, from which one has a splendid view of the opposite shore, including Point Lobos. Carmel is a favorite resort for college professors and there are numerous artists who find much material for their skill in the immediate vicinity. Our frontispiece, "The Gate of Val Paiso Canyon," is the work of a talented member of the Carmel Colony and a fine example of some of the striking and virile things they produce—though we must concede them a great advantage in the wealth of striking and virile subjects so readily at hand. Carmel claims that its climate is even more genial and equable than that of the other side of the peninsula—but I believe I stated at the outset that climate is not to be discussed in this book.

No road in the whole country is more famous than Monterey's seventeen-mile drive; one could never become weary of its glorious bits of coast—wide vistas of summer seas and gnarled old cypresses, found nowhere else in the New World. It is still called the seventeen-mile drive, though it has been added to until there are forty miles of macadam boulevard on the peninsula. Leaving Monterey we passed the presidio, where a regiment of United States regulars is permanently stationed—being mostly troops enroute to, or returning from, the Philippines. Near the entrance is a marble statue of the patron saint of Monterey, Father Serra, commemorating his landing in 1770. It shows the good priest stepping from the boat, Bible in hand, to begin work in the new field. This monument was the gift of Mrs. Leland Stanford, to whose munificence California is so greatly indebted. A cross just outside the entrance, standing in the place of the ancient oak whose dead trunk we saw at San Carlos Church, is supposed to mark the exact landing-spot of both Serra and Viscaino. There is also the Sloat monument, reared of stones from every county in the state, which commemorates the raising of the American flag by the admiral in 1846. The roads in the presidio are open to motors and one may witness the daily military exercises from a comfortable seat in his car.

Beyond the presidio is Pacific Grove, a resort town nearly as large as Monterey—just why "Pacific Grove" is not clear, for there are not many trees in the town. It was founded in 1869 as a camp-meeting ground and is still famous as a headquarters for religious societies. From here one may take a glass-bottomed boat to view the "marine gardens," which are said to surpass those at Avalon.

Beyond Pacific Grove we passed through a dense pine forest—this is the Pacific Grove, perhaps—and coming into the open, we followed white sand dunes for some distance along the sea. A sign, "Moss Beach," called for an immediate halt and the ladies found treasures untold in the strange, brilliantly colored bits of moss and sea-weed washed ashore here in unlimited quantities. It is a wild, boulder-strewn bit of beach, damp with spray and resonant with the swish of the waves among the rocks. Beyond here the road continues through dunes, brilliant in places with pink and yellow sand-flowers. We passed Point Joe, Restless Sea—where two opposing currents wrestle in an eternal maelstrom—Bird Rocks, and Seal Rocks—the latter the home of the largest sea-lion colony on the coast. The sea was glorious beyond description; perhaps the same is true of any sunny day at Monterey, and nearly all days at Monterey are sunny. It showed all tones of blue, from solid indigo to pale sapphire, with a strip of light emerald near the shore, edged by the long, white breakers chafing on the beach. Here and there, at some distance from the shore, the deep-blue expanse was broken by patches of royal purple—an effect produced by the floating kelp. A clear azure sky bent down to the wide circle of the horizon, with an occasional white sail or steamer to break the sweep of one's vision over the waste of shining water. It is not strange that Stevenson, who had seen and written so much of the sea, should say of such a scene, "No other coast have I enjoyed so much in all weather—such a spectacle of ocean's greatness, such beauty of changing color, and so much thunder in the sound—as at Monterey."

The climax of the seventeen-mile drive is Cypress Point, with its weird old trees. Description and picture are weak to give any true conception of these fantastic, wind-blown monsters. It is, indeed, as Stevenson wrote—and who was able to judge of such things better than he?—"No words can give any idea of the contortions of their growth; they might figure without a change in the nether hell as Dante pictured it." And yet, with all their suggestion of the infernal regions, there is much of beauty and charm in their very deformity. There is about them a certain strength and ruggedness, born of their age-long defiance to the wild northwestern winds, that is alike an admonition and an inspiration to the beholder. If you would get my idea, select one of these strange trees standing by itself in solemn majesty on some rocky headland—as shown in Mr. Moran's splendid picture—and note how its very form and attitude breathe defiance to the forces that would beat it down and destroy it. Or take another which lies almost prone on the brown earth, its monstrous arms writhing in a thousand contortions, yet its expanse of moss-green foliage rising but little higher than your head, and note how it has stooped to conquer these same adverse elements.

Among the most familiar objects of the Point is the "Ostrich," two cypresses growing together so as to give from certain viewpoints a striking resemblance to a giant bird of that species. It is not the forced resemblance of so many natural objects to fancied likenesses, but is apparent to everyone at once. The traveler of to-day, however, will look in vain for this curious natural freak; it was swept away with hundreds of other ancient pines and cypresses in the violent hurricane of April 1917.

At the extremity of the Point, the road turns and enters a second grove of cypresses which, being farther removed from the storm and stress of the sea, are more symmetrical, though all of them have, to some extent, the same wind-swept appearance. Their branches overarched the fine road and through their trunks on our right flashed the bright expanse of Carmel Bay. Our motor was throttled to its slowest pace as we passed through the marvelous scenes and there were many stops for photographs of picturesque bits that struck our fancy.

The cypresses were superseded by pines when we came into the projected town of Pebble Beach, which is being vigorously exploited by a promotion company—a rival, we suppose, to Pacific Grove, which lies directly opposite on the peninsula. In the center of the tract is Pebble Beach Lodge, a huge rustic structure of pine logs from the surrounding forest, which serves as an assembly hall and club house for the guests of the Del Monte. A short distance beyond Pebble Beach the drive swings across the peninsula and returns to the Hotel Del Monte.

In addition to the route following the coast—the seventeen-mile drive proper, which I have just described—there is a network of boulevards in the interior swinging around the low hills in easy curves and grades. A moderate-powered car can cover the entire system on high gear, even to Corona Del Monte, the highest point of the peninsula, which takes one nearly nine hundred feet above the sea and affords a far-reaching outlook in all directions. The dark blue bay of Monterey, the white crescent of the beach, the drives, the pine and cypress groves, the red roofs of the town, and the Hotel Del Monte near by, half hidden in the dense green of the forest surrounding it, make a lovely and never-to-be-forgotten picture. The mountain to the east is Fremont Peak, forty miles away—a name that reminds us how much the Pathfinder figured in the old California of which Monterey is so typical.

They told us that Point Lobos, the rocky, cypress-crowned headland which we saw across Carmel Bay, is the equal of anything on the peninsula in scenic beauty, and there we wended our way on the last day of our stay at Del Monte. Crossing to Carmel, we glided down the hill past the old mission and over the river bridge at the head of the bay. From there a road following the shore took us to the entrance of Point Lobos Park, which is private property, and a small fee is charged for each vehicle. A rough trail led to the cypress grove on the headland, where we found many delightful nooks among the sprawling old trees—grassy little glades surrounded by the velvety foliage—ideal spots for picnic dinners. In one of these is the complete mounted skeleton of a ninety-foot whale, which might serve as an argument against the learned critics who discredit the story of Jonah and his piscatorial experience. Like the pavement of San Carlos Church, it is another reminder of one of Monterey's vanished industries.

A good authority testifies that there are few more strikingly picturesque bits of coast on the whole of the Pacific than Point Lobos. The high, rugged promontory falls almost sheer to the ocean, which raves ceaselessly among the huge moss-grown boulders that have yielded to the stress of storm and tumbled down on to the beach. The play of color is marvelous; scarped cliffs of red-brown granite, flecked with gray and green lichens; black boulders with patches of yellowish-green moss; and hardy, somber trees which have found a footing on the precipices, here and there, almost down to the water's edge. Out beyond we saw a steely-blue ocean, with frequent whitecaps, for it was a fresh, bright day with a stiff breeze blowing from the sea. I believe there may be finer individual trees on Point Lobos than on the Monterey peninsula—some of them in their kingly mien and grim solemnity reminding us of famous yews we had seen in English churchyards such as Twyford, Selborne and Stoke Pogis. A great variety of wild flowers still farther enhanced the charm of the place. It is a spot, it seemed to us, where anyone who admires the sublime and beautiful in nature might spend many hours if he had them at his disposal.

Returning, we noticed a good-sized building on the bay with the sign, "Abalone Cannery," and our curiosity prompted us to drive down to it. It was not in operation, a solitary Jap in charge telling us that the season was now closed. He was an obliging, intelligent fellow, and showed us the machines and appliances of the plant, explaining as best he could in his scanty English. The abalones are taken by Japanese divers, who find them clinging to rocks under the water. The mussels are removed from the shells, cooked in steam drums, and tinned, the product being mainly shipped to Japan. In this connection it may be remarked that the fishing industry about Monterey produces a considerable annual total, several canneries being in operation in the vicinity. Many kinds of fish are taken—and as a field for the sportsman with rod and line the bay is quite equal to Catalina Island waters.

A narrow, little-used road runs down the coast from Point Lobos for a distance of about thirty miles. Some day this will be improved and carried through to Lucia, ten miles farther, forming a link in the real "Coast Highway"—a road actually following the ocean—which Californians have in mind; nor will there be a more magnificent drive in the world. An artist acquaintance of ours—his name is familiar as one of our greatest landscapists—had established his studio on this road three or four miles below Point Lobos and his realistic paintings of this marvelous coast were creating a furor in the artistic world. We drove down to visit him one glorious evening when the sea was full of light and color and the air resonant with the turmoil of the waves among the rocks. We were just a little concerned as our heavy car crossed a high, frail-looking bridge on the way, but maybe it was stronger than it appeared. Our friend had built a studio on a headland commanding a wide sweep of the rugged coast and here we found him busy at his easel. He had made an enviable reputation painting old-world scenes, but before the World War had abandoned this field of work for the lure of California, to which a brother artist had called his attention. His enthusiasm for his new field of art knew no bounds. "I have seen much of the most impressive coast scenery of the world," he declared, "but nothing that approaches the beauty of the Pacific about Monterey. The coast of Greece is its nearest rival, so far as I know, but even the coast of Greece did not appeal so strongly to my artistic sense." His judgment would seem to be borne out by the instant popularity of his Point Lobos marines, which have found an eager demand at record prices.

On our return from the studio to the hotel we had such an enchanting series of views as the sunset faded into twilight that we could understand our friend's enthusiasm and only wished that the state of our finances permitted us to carry away a permanent reminder of this wonderful coast in the shape of one of his paintings—an indulgence which we had to reluctantly forego.

We gave our last afternoon to the gardens about the hotel. In these are nearly all the trees and flora of the Pacific Coast. There are over fourteen hundred varieties of plant life, among them seventy-eight species of coniferous trees, two hundred and ten evergreens, two hundred and eighty-five of herbaceous plants and more than ninety kinds of roses. In the Arizona Garden are nearly three hundred species of cacti, comprising almost everything found in the United States. Most of the plants and trees are labeled with scientific or common name, but we gained much information from a chance meeting with the head gardener. He confessed to being a native Englishman, which we might have guessed from the perfect order of the grounds and gardens.

We spent the evening in the gallery, a spacious apartment which also serves as a ballroom. Frequent concerts are held here in which a splendid pipe-organ plays a principal part. Several hundred paintings form a permanent exhibition, exclusively the work of California artists. We were surprised at the uniformly high artistic merit of the pictures. The collection is quite the equal of many of the best exhibits of the East. The uniform excellence of these pictures is due to the fact that every one accepted has been passed on by a committee of distinguished California artists. California subjects predominate, as might be expected, and land-and seascapes are probably in the majority. The pictures are for sale, a fact which enabled the writer to secure several of the fine examples reproduced for this book.